


The Endless Beauty of the Deli Sandwich

by bethfrish



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hardy Boys - Franklin W. Dixon
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-28
Updated: 2010-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfrish/pseuds/bethfrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And every other American dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Endless Beauty of the Deli Sandwich

The summer of 1922 would forever stand out in Fenton Hardy's mind as one of the most frustratingly unproductive seasons of his career. Though the summer of 1923 was even more frustrating and more unproductive for those sorry fellows who found themselves unhappily confronted with the same roster and the same desk as the year before—"This Prohibition baloney has simply got to go," Lieutenant King was heard to mumble in between sips of tepid coffee—Fenton had been transferred to homicide in the autumn of '22, and the investigation of murders was a slow, steady burn next to the hyperactive uselessness of prying off warehouse doors and pulling transports over on the side of the road.

Activity artificially swelled in the summer, but only in the sense that it was slightly easier to detect. The cooler months offered the concealment of winter coats and overburdened couriers, helpfully accompanied by the dull indifference of a dispassioned police force. Cops have nothing better to do in the heat than to stroll past a drug store with their burly forearms bared, or drive with the windows down, leering suspiciously at women with overlarge handbags and children riding too slowly on their bicycles. 

Having yet to reach the age of twenty-seven, Fenton Hardy was still a moderately passionate police detective working in the unglamorous neighborhood of Central Brooklyn, but even he was beginning to lose his patience with the unreasonably surly grocer at Schlossberg's Finer Foods. 

"Now, see here," Fenton demanded, placing one sweaty palm on the counter. It was a blisteringly hot day in early June, and his shirt was pressed damply between his back and his jacket like an inedible grilled cheese sandwich. "You're going to unlock that storage closet, or I'm going to tear the hinges right off. It's up to you." 

The man surveyed him with disinterest. "There are only empty milk crates in there." 

Ken Harding, Fenton's tree trunk of a partner, jabbed a finger at the lock for effect. "Just open the goddamn door," Harding snapped. He was a man of little patience who liked to say "goddamn" a lot, and not a day went by where Fenton didn't curse the 71st Precinct's obvious sense of humor in making them partners. 

The grocer pinched the sweat from the bridge of his nose, gave a grunt of acquiescence, and went to fish the key out from a box beneath the register. It was only then that Fenton noticed the man leaning casually against the counter. 

"Can I help you?" he asked, annoyed. 

"Not at all," the man answered cheerfully. "I just wanted to pay for these eggs." 

"You'll have to wait." 

"Not a problem." 

Fenton watched him suspiciously as Harding grabbed the key from the grocer and made for the closet. The man appeared to be only a bit older than himself, with neatly combed hair, a white flannel suit, and that bleached-out look in the eyes that one gets from too much exposure to the sun. He smiled at Fenton in a charming sort of way, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

"Goddamn it!" came Harding's muffled discovery. "Milk crates! Stacked to the ceiling!" 

The grocer reappeared behind the counter, looking surly as ever. "Twenty cents," he instructed the man in white. 

"Thanks, Lou," he said, tucking his purchase beneath his arm. "This heat is inexcusable," he muttered to Fenton with a confusing wink. "You must be dying. Anyway, good day to you, Detective—" 

"Hardy. Fenton Hardy." 

"Detective Hardy." He smiled. "Good day." 

"Goddamn it!" Harding said again, coming up beside Fenton and placing a hot, clammy hand on his shoulder. "Either that was a bogus tip, or there's something very fishy going on around here." 

Fenton only pursed his lips, and they retreated to the street where the sun had made an oven of their car. 

  
  
  
  


Two weeks later, Fenton was enjoying a corned beef sandwich at the counter of Joe's Deli, a hole-in-the-wall dive that had somehow managed to lose itself on the corner of Nostrand and Empire, when the man who had purchased the eggs vaporously appeared in the chair next to his. 

"Well hello, old sport!" he called jovially, sneaking in an order for pastrami on rye as Fenton stared at him around a mouthful of sandwich. He was wearing a suit of pale yellow and a powdery shirt with no tie. He looked like a day trip to the ocean. 

"Oh, hello," said Fenton, swallowing. 

"Do you remember? We met at the grocery store. Your partner returned from the storage room aglow with homicidal rage." He took a sip of water from the glass that was deposited in front of him. "Where is your partner today? I haven't taken his seat, have I?" 

Fenton shook his head. "He's at the office, doing paperwork." 

"Oh, good." The man smiled with relief. "I like to think that I'm in decent enough shape, but it's never wise to mess with that sort of fellow. I'm sorry, old sport!" he said abruptly, looking oddly grief-stricken. "I never introduced myself. Jay Gatsby." He extended his hand. 

Fenton thought the name sounded familiar, but New York had a distinct habit of casting a thin veil of familiarity over even the most perfect of strangers. He discreetly wiped his hand on his napkin. "Nice to see you again," he said, returning the gesture. "How were your eggs?" 

Gatsby stared at him blankly for a moment. "My eggs?" he wondered. "Oh, my eggs! Delicious, thanks for asking. It's Hardy, isn't it? I'm going to be terribly embarrassed if it isn't." 

"No, that's right." 

The waiter brought Gatsby a pastrami sandwich and a long, pale pickle spear. "Anything else?" he mumbled wearily at Fenton, accomplishing the impressive feat of both addressing and ignoring him. 

"No, thank you. Just the check." He glanced sideways at Gatsby. "So...do you work around here?" 

"Me? No." 

"I see." 

Gatsby crunched at his pickle. "Nobody makes pastrami like Joe," he mused, alluding to the purported namesake and possible, but unlikely, chef. "Some places, you know, they spice it all wrong. Too much paprika, not enough mustard seed. This is my favorite place." 

Fenton smiled. "It's mine as well." He felt a strange pang of solidarity over this revelation, as if he and Gatsby were members of the same secret fraternity. The sole patron of Joe's Deli that afternoon besides themselves was a diminutive woman who looked to be about a hundred. Her head was bent so low over her soup that Fenton genuinely feared there might be a disaster involving her wig. 

"Are you married, old sport?" Gatsby asked. 

It was an abrupt question, but Fenton was feeling so nostalgic over their shared appreciation for cured meats that he answered without thinking about it. "Yes. In fact, we have a baby boy." 

Gatsby studied him thoughtfully for a moment, then broke into a grin. "That's fantastic! That's really great!" he exclaimed, as if Fenton had just confided that a cancer-stricken relative was finally on the path to recovery. 

"And you? Do you have a wife?" 

"Who, me? No, old sport. I'm not married. Truthfully, I'm a bit surprised that you are. You don't seem—that is to say..." He picked off a bit of his crust and tossed it into his mouth. "...You're so young." 

"Nonsense. I'm twenty-six." 

"Goodness, you don't look it. All of twenty-three, I'd say. It's those tall-dark-and-handsome features. You can get away with anything." 

"Ah...thank you," said Fenton. It was a rather universal compliment, but he averted his eyes and drank at length from his water. 

"Say!" Gatsby exclaimed, clasping him on the shoulder when they were through eating. "I'm having a party this weekend. I'd be delighted if you came. West Egg village, you know the place? Just ask around. Jay Gatsby. Everyone knows where it is. Here, let me give you my address. You can bring your wife!" All of this he said with the dying burst of enthusiasm of a near-empty bottle of ketchup. 

"Perhaps I will," Fenton agreed, accepting the slip of paper that Gatsby had unearthed from some interior pocket of his jacket. 

"Splendid!" Gatsby flashed another smile of solar magnitude. "Well, I have to be going, but this was a fine luncheon. We should do it again. And to think, I was all set to eat alone. Please, let me pick up your tab." 

Fenton tried to protest, but Gatsby waved his hand away and deposited three dollars on the counter. "I—Thank you," Fenton said reluctantly. "That's very kind of you. We hardly even know each other." 

"Come to my house then, old sport, and we shall fix that." 

Fenton could think of nothing to say, so he simply nodded and shook Gatsby's hand. Then he excused himself to the restroom in order to freshen up, and upon returning, found that Gatsby was gone. The waiter's eyes flickered dully at him from around his newspaper, and across the room, the tiny old lady dozed peacefully an inch above her soup. 

  
  
  
  


To call where Gatsby lived a "house" would have done a grand disservice to the word. " _That's_ what you call a house now?" people would wonder, surveying their own inadequate quarters with despair. The great, hulking structure was not a house, nor was it even a mansion. _A castle_ , Fenton thought with dismay as he edged his car uneasily into Gatsby's vast driveway. A gloriously obscene castle that sat languidly upon the Long Island Sound, casting its night-lit decadence upon acres of grass and beach and Earth. 

"Oh my!" exclaimed Laura Hardy, Fenton's wife, from the passenger seat of their sedan. "Are you certain we're allowed to be here?" 

Fenton frowned, unsure of where to leave his car. "The man invited us." 

"But are you absolutely sure? How is it, again, that you know him?" 

It was an interesting question, the matter of knowing Gatsby. "Oh, darling, we met at the grocery store!" was much too glib, but in truth, they had done just that. Then they had met again at a deli—mutually, their favorite deli—and then, somehow, Gatsby had ended up buying him lunch. Fenton was overcome with a kind of strange, illogical fondness for the man, despite knowing so little about him. As it was, he was rather disinclined to mention any of this to his wife. 

"He works in the city," Fenton concocted, turning off the car. 

"Oh, do you think Frank will be okay?" Laura asked wearily, straightening her hat as they took in the sheer enormity of Gatsby's little shindig. Swirls of people amassed in every available space—in the garden, on the front steps, down at the beach where the sun was already beginning its vain descent into the water—then scattered like shards of broken glass, drifting and weaving and calling, "Hello! It's good to see you again!" to people whose names they will never remember. 

"My sister will take fine care of him," Fenton assured her. 

"Your sister looks at me like I can't tell my right hand from my left." 

"Laura, darling, she looks at everyone like that." 

It was nearly two hours before their elusive host, clad in a lavender suit and seeing to it that drinks were being fixed for a twenty-piece horn section, appeared suddenly in the distance like a rare species of flamboyantly dressed butterfly. He smiled at Fenton from across the garden and motioned to them with a grand wave. 

"Glad you could come, old sport," he said pleasantly. "You see this man here?" At this, he motioned across the cocktail bar to squat gentleman with a trumpet tucked beneath one arm and a balloon of something amber in the other. "This is Mr. Hadley. He plays with the New York Philharmonic. He's second chair, but I say he should be principal. They don't know what they're doing over there." Hadley gave Fenton and his wife a queasy nod. "And this must be the lovely Mrs. Hardy," Gatsby continued, smiling broadly at each of them in turn. 

"Yes, this is my wife, Laura. Laura, this is Jay Gatsby." 

"You cradle robber, you. She looks about sixteen." Gatsby took her slender hand in his and kissed it. "I'm only kidding. It's a pleasure to meet you. Your husband's a real bull of a policeman. I've seen him work, and let me tell you, it's refreshing." 

Fenton gaped at him. The only time Gatsby had ever seen him on the job was during an aborted raid at a grocer's counter and while enjoying the mundane pleasure of a corned beef sandwich. "You've got an awful lot of liquor here, Gatsby," Fenton blurted out. 

"You see?" Gatsby whispered to Fenton's wife. "It's all legal, I assure you. My great uncle stockpiled the stuff in 1919. He's dead now. Guess who inherited the lot?" Gatsby clapped Fenton affectionately on the back. "Have a drink, old sport. I swear it's on the up and up," but Fenton only shook his head politely. Gatsby's hand was still on his back. "Ah! A partner in sobriety, then!" he cheered, leaning in slightly. Gatsby was called into the house then, and, giving his sincere word that he would rejoin them later, fluttered away towards the jaunty melody of some far away waltz. 

It was not until the Hardys began searching for their car several hours later that Gatsby reappeared, materializing, it seemed, from thin air. 

"Leaving already?" he asked. 

"I had a simply lovely time!" slurred Laura, who had both arms draped drunkenly around her husband's neck as he lifted her off the ground. A small champagne flute had appeared in her hand at some point when his back was turned, which at progressive intervals seemed to magically refill itself. She was quite gone. 

"Oh, I'm so glad. Is this your car, old sport? This one over here? I thought I saw you drive in." 

"Oh, yes. Thank you." Together they eased Laura into the passenger seat, where she slumped happily against the window. 

"Your sister will murder me!" came a muffled whoop from behind the glass. 

Fenton looked stricken. "She's unused to liquor." Gatsby nodded. "Well," Fenton continued, raking his fingers through his hair. "Goodnight, Gatsby. You throw quite the party." 

What passed over Gatsby's face was a singularly radiant smile that, like the sun, unwittingly stirred in its recipient the desire to both stare deeper and shy away. "And you are welcome any time. Bring the wife. Bring the sister—she sounds like a riot! Or come by yourself, I don't care," Gatsby added with a shrug. 

"All right," Fenton agreed. He always felt terribly bland in the presence of Gatsby's uniquely confounding enthusiasm. He stuck out his hand. "Goodnight." 

"Goodnight, old sport," said Gatsby, clasping Fenton's hand between his. His pale eyes flashed in the darkness, reflecting the small explosion that had just erupted from somewhere on the beach. "Oops," he said, giving it a warm squeeze. "Better go see what blew up. Goodnight!" 

"Goodnight," Fenton said to his retreating figure, and climbed into his car where his wife was passed out elegantly against the dashboard. 

  
  
  
  


They spent more than a few summer evenings lost in the spectacular gaiety that was Gatsby's West Egg palace, where they mingled among the movie stars and the drunks, the middle-aged men from working class boroughs and the young, old-money couples who could have bought them all three times over. Others were simply there because they had seen the lights from some distant road and thought, in the sweltering heat, "Let's see what that is!" Fenton's wife cultivated a talent for getting steadily drunk and despising herself for it later, giggling at nothing as her husband admired the splendor with his hands in his pockets. 

More often, however, he shared lunch with Gatsby at Joe's Deli on the corner of Nostrand and Empire, and in fact, frequented the place so often that his own partner warned him what would happen if he suggested even one more round of corned beef. 

"Hardy, if you take me there again I swear, I'll make it so that you never want another goddamn sandwich for the rest of your life. I'm going to get a hot dog." 

Coincidentally, Gatsby only seemed to be in the neighborhood when Fenton was by himself, which, in truth, suited him just fine. Harding and his noticeably limited vocabulary were not always to everyone's tastes. 

"Now listen, old sport," Gatsby said one day from his usual spot at the counter. "I see you're all about the corned beef, and that's fine. I can appreciate a good corned beef sandwich. But for me, nothing does it like pastrami. It's got that smokiness, you see. That little something extra. Did you know it can take weeks to brine? Weeks!" 

"I didn't know that." 

"And let's not even talk about the spices." Gatsby stared thoughtfully at his plate. "It's a beautiful thing, this sandwich. So deceptively simple when it's sitting there in front of you, but oh, the hidden secrets of cured meats! You'd never guess. The first time I tried it, I said, 'What is this pink stuff?' and my friend looked at me told me that it was pastrami. 'Pastrami!' I said. 'How marvelous!' That first taste has always haunted me." 

Fenton gazed, dumbstruck, at his own plate. "The rye is very good today," he offered. 

"It is, old sport. It is. Very fresh. Tell the baker the bread is very fresh today!" he called over the counter. 

The waiter lowered his newspaper halfway before appearing to decide that a verbal response was beyond his duties. 

"So how's business, old sport?" Gatsby asked congenially. "Well, not business, exactly, but you know." 

Fenton took a vindictive sip of coffee. "I guarantee you that someone, somewhere, right at this very moment, is doing something very illegal, but I'll be damned if we ever catch them. You know, it wouldn't surprise me to learn that they have false walls rigged to drop from the ceiling the second they hear us coming." 

"That wouldn't surprise me either, old sport." 

"Is that so?" 

"Not a bit." 

"Gatsby..." Fenton began slowly, folding his napkin in half, and then again in quarters. "Say you knew something was going on around here—knew for a fact—you'd...you'd tell me, wouldn't you?" 

"Of course. Why do you ask?" 

"It just—well, you seem very well-connected, and it's been very quiet around here. And quiet isn't good for our department. And, it's just...I thought—I mean, if anyone might—" 

"Say no more." Gatsby clasped Fenton on the shoulder and winked at him almost obscenely. "For you, old sport, I'll keep one ear open." 

Three days later, Fenton received a phone call at home regarding a certain grocer who was said to be selling rice wine under the guise of vinegar. "I hope I'm not leading you astray," Gatsby murmured into the receiver, "but I've been told that Lenny the grocer has been dressing particularly well as of late." Fenton left for the store without even saying goodbye to his wife, headed to the counter, and discreetly requested two bottles of their finest vinegar. "You know the stuff," he muttered, palming a neat fan of bills. Lenny tried to run for it before he even saw the badge, but Fenton had him and two boys, who had clearly not been hired to work the register, in handcuffs before Ken Harding could even find a place to leave his car. 

The next morning he rang up Gatsby to thank him for the tip, but could only reach his loyal butler who politely informed him that Mr. Gatsby was not, at the present moment, available to talk on the phone. 

  
  
  
  


The 71st Precinct did not have a prolific summer, even by a loose definition of the word, but Fenton's own success, at least, was due largely to Gatsby and his mysterious network of information. Fenton never questioned from where he gained this seemingly ubiquitous knowledge, but Gatsby was so sincere in his willingness to assist that Fenton found himself too overcome with appreciation to say anything but, "Thanks, Gatsby. Truly, thank you." 

The peculiar thing about these raids was that they were never, not once, where Fenton expected them to be. Just as he'd convince himself that the ever-growing patronage of one particular establishment was worthy of closer inspection, Gatsby would telephone excitedly and contradict his notion completely. "You've got it wrong, old sport. It's the one across the way!" 

One Friday afternoon Fenton decided, on a whim, to take the day off and go visit his friend at his home in West Egg village. It occurred to him, as he nosed his car into Gatsby's barren driveway, that he had never been there during the day before, and found the effect rather akin to the disconnect one feels when the lights come up after a film. It was very clean and very still, except for a number of men with crates who seemed to percolate through the garden at random intervals. He found Gatsby almost at once, loitering at the top of the stairs as though he'd been expecting Fenton's arrival for quite some time. 

"Hello, old sport," he called, slipping his hands into the pockets of his white flannels. 

"Hello, Gatsby," Fenton waved. "I thought I'd stop by and see how you were doing. I, ah—I brought sandwiches," he added, indicating a paper bag. 

"Wonderful!" Gatsby gave Fenton a radiant smile as he joined him on the front steps. "You're much too kind. Shall we go inside, old sport? It very hot out today." 

"It is," Fenton agreed. He looked over his shoulder, frowning. "Say, who are all those men in your yard?" 

"Just my caterers." Gatsby placed a hand on his back, ushering him into the house. 

"Ah. Of course," Fenton nodded. "I should have guessed. But there are so many crates. What's in them?" 

"Oranges." 

"Oranges! All of them?" 

"And other fruits. Would you like some? The pineapples are flawless this season." 

"No, thank you." 

They stopped in the main hall, and Gatsby frowned suddenly. "You've not seen my house when it's like this. Empty, I mean. I'm afraid natural light does it no favors." He swept his finger over the nose of some contemptuous statue. "My goodness, so much dust. Over here's the library. I'm quite proud of it." 

Fenton was admiring the high ceilings and dignified smell of leather when Gatsby's butler appeared in the doorway behind them, looking perturbed. "Mr. Gatsby, sir, they would like to know where you'd prefer they store the excess...the excess cantaloupe." 

"How many times must I tell them that any surplus is to be kept in the second kitchen. Now if you please, I have company." He smiled apologetically at Fenton as the butler went away. 

"Cantaloupe, too?" 

"Oh, yes. Not nearly as exquisite as the pineapple, but you know, not everyone likes pineapple." Gatsby sat down heavily on the sofa as if the walk to the library had worn him out. "Forgive me, old sport. Would you like something to drink? I can have anything made for you. Anything at all. Just ask." 

"No, I'm fine, thank you." 

"All right, good. And how's the wife?" 

Fenton joined Gatsby on the sofa, setting his bag of sandwiches down on a large table of English oak. "She's doing well. The baby keeps her busy—too busy, I'm afraid. She wishes we could accept your invitations more often." 

"Never mind, old sport," Gatsby said, patting his knee. "She's a nice girl. And anyway—" 

Gatsby's butler cleared his throat from the doorway once more. "Sir, Chicago is on the line for you." 

"Not now, please," said Gatsby pleasantly. 

"But, sir—" 

"I said, _not now_." 

The butler pursed his lips, glanced at Fenton, and left the room. 

"Terribly sorry about that. I have an aunt who lives in Chicago. Her children all ignore her, so she sometimes telephones me for financial advice." He shook his head. "Inherited wealth is hardly a qualifier of insight. 'Just don't buy a boat,' I told her. Anyway, a thousand apologies for the interruption." 

"No, it's quite all right." Fenton waited for Gatsby to continue his earlier train of thought, but there was only an endless stretch of contemplative silence. "Ah, what were you saying before?" he prompted. 

"Before. Hmm. Oh, yes! I was about to say that I rather prefer our intimate little luncheons. Well, as intimate as two men can hope to be at a deli." 

Fenton felt the sofa cushions shift. "You haven't got a girl, then?" he asked, glancing up. 

Gatsby gave a peculiar laugh. "I'm afraid I have an unfortunate history with women. We can't all be so lucky as you, old sport." 

Fenton reached out and grasped Gatsby's hand. "Oh, I've put my foot in my mouth. I'm sorry, Gatsby. I didn't mean to—Well, anyway, I'm not as lucky as all that." 

"Oh, no?" 

"No," said Fenton stiffly. 

Gatsby squeezed the hand that was still lost somewhere in his lap. "But how can that be? You have a breathtaking wife and, though I've never seen him, what I'm convinced must be an equally beautiful child." He gave his hand another deliberate pump. Fenton could have sworn he even used his real name. "What more could you ask for?" 

Fenton swallowed, studying a tall shelf of books that seemed to contain only varying shades burgundy, too far away to decipher. For all he knew, the spines were blank. He said nothing for a long moment, then with a single, shallow breath, leaned in and kissed Gatsby on the mouth. 

How long it lasted, he could not say, only that when he opened his eyes his hands were tangled in the front of Gatsby's shirt, and his mouth tasted of pineapple he didn't remember eating. 

Gatsby regarded him carefully. "Now listen, old sport—" 

Fenton relinquished his shirt in a sudden panic. "Oh, god. I—I'm so sorry. I don't know—Oh, dear god." He sprang from the sofa, blinking rapidly as he ran his fingers through his hair. The telephone in the hall began to ring again. 

"Never mind," said Gatsby, dismissing the matter with a flutter of his hand. "Between you and me, it was one of my better kisses." Then he added, rather seriously, "I won't tell if you won't." 

Fenton met Gatsby's pale, anxious eyes. "I—I have to go. I actually think I'm supposed to be somewhere," he laughed despairingly, and fled from the house down the great cascade of steps, out into the sun-bleached driveway where several men were hastily cleaning up a grievous massacre of emerald-colored glass. 

Fenton neither saw nor heard of Jay Gatsby until weeks later, when news of his death broke across the department like a rejuvenating summer storm. It seemed that some madman had come round and shot him in his swimming pool in the middle of the afternoon, convinced, in his grief, that Gatsby had killed his wife with his car. It was the story of the season. The North Shore division was busy for weeks. 

Fenton sat at his desk that first morning, staring morosely at an article that bared an exceptionally tasteless headline. Out of the corner of his eye, his partner adjusted his holster and frowned. 

"Gatsby!" grunted Harding, slapping the paper with the back of his hand. "Could never trace anything back to the scoundrel, and now he's dead! Did I tell you that the men we took in from Schlossberg's yesterday tried to pin it all on him? A lot of goddamn good it does if he's dead!" 

"How do you know they're telling the truth?" Fenton said from between his teeth. 

"Everyone knew it, Hardy. Jesus. Goddamn bootlegger." 

Fenton stood up sharply, giving Harding a look of intense dislike. "Gatsby was not a bootlegger," he insisted angrily, knocking the paper from his desk as he walked away. 

He informed the receptionist that he was going home for the afternoon, then got in his car and drove to the corner of Nostrand and Empire where he proceeded to order an entire pound of pastrami. Fruitlessly, he searched for the bored waiter, but his haughty indifference was conspicuously absent that day. The girl who took his money watched him curiously as tears rolled, uninhibited, down his cheeks, and the old woman in the corner, perhaps in an effort to indicate that she was still alive, lifted her head from her soup and shook it sadly. "Please thank Joe for me," Fenton told them gravely. Then he went home, locked the door, and quite successfully knocked up his wife. 

Too bewildered by his unusual display of carnality to do little more than catch her breath, Laura stared at the ceiling as he smoked a cigarette, and wondered, but did not ask, why it was that his kisses tasted so devastatingly of salt.


End file.
